


In only seven days (or the life and times of a sullen convenience store employee)

by WilwyWaylan



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Montparnasse suffers the indignity of WORK, background bahorel/feuilly - Freeform, background bini, background enjoltaire, convenience shop!AU, hint of Courferre, mainly jehanparnasse, modern!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21549580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WilwyWaylan/pseuds/WilwyWaylan
Summary: Montparnasse has the pleasure of having to work in a convenience shop for a week, which, of course, displeases him to no end. Not only does he have to work, but the shop is patronized by lots of people. Some of them very, very weird.
Relationships: Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire
Kudos: 32





	1. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kujaku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kujaku/gifts), [jesvisfarovche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesvisfarovche/gifts), [Fille_au_loup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fille_au_loup/gifts).

For the third time in one hour, Montparnasse changes the hand his head is resting on, and sighs, the longest sigh he'd ever uttered (or it's pretty high in his top ten). His palms and elbows are starting to hurt, and he will probably get very inelegant bruises, staying like this. But the only other options are either getting up and doing something like sorting some merchandise or maybe cleaning a little, or lay his head down on the counter and take a nap. Or scream for two hours straight. And as much as he really wants to scream, it won't be very good for his image. Or job. Or throat.

To think that someone like him could be caught in this predicament. It's all so stupid, he feels like hitting his head against the counter. Except that it would probably ruin his face, so he doesn't. But it would very well deserve it. Because only an idiot would get roped into working at a convenience store for a week, and the night shift at that. Granted, he's lucky. Anyone else trying to rob a convenience shop (stupid enough to rob a convenience shop) would have gotten jail, or something worse as a punishment. Luckily - or not - for him, the owner seems to be under the charm of his robber enough to make a deal with him : one week of free work will reimburse the window he broke and the prejudice, and he's free to go, without any charges pressed. Montparnasse doesn't like it, not with the way the man leered at him, but he can't really choose in this situation. Anything is better than jail.

And to make matters worse, that deal has been overseen by none other than Javert. Javert, who seems to have made his mission in life to make Montparnasse's a living hell. Montparnasse is sure he dreams of it at night, most delicious dreams where he locks him in a very dark jail and throws away the key. Not that he wants to think about what Javert dreams of at night. Of course he was the first to arrive when Montparnasse was caught, and of course, he was delighted when he could finally put his dirty hands on him. And of course, he was seething when the owner instead made his offer, to "give a poor boy another chance at life". Javert's face at this declaration will probably be Montparnasse's only comfort during that ordeal. Had the cop had a bit less restraint, he would have grabbed both of them and locked them somewhere. Instead, he glared at Montparnasse all through the negotiations, and left with the promise that he'd always keep an eye on him. Absolutely not creepy.

So here he is, bored out of his mind, sitting behind a counter made of very cheap plastic, with a register that has known better days staring at him, waiting for the crowd of weird people, idiots, drunks, self-proclaimed funny guys, thieves, creepy guys, or any combination of the above to roll by. It sounds very much like the plot of some kind of stupid movie where the hero is stuck in an uncomfortable situation that will change his life forever. For now, it doesn't seem very life-changing, more like life-numbing, and he's not the sullen hero of a teen movie. Just a very, very, very bored guy. Well, he thinks, it's only for a week. You can do it. Be on your best behaviour for a week, play the good guy, and you'll be free. One week. You can do it.

~*~

On Monday, nothing weird happens. Montparnasse stays behind the counter, vaguely nodding at people as they come and go, ringing the purchases. He doesn't make small talk, barely mumbling the prices. Maybe it's better like that. The shop is very cleverly set at the corner between two streets with a very high student population, and they make the main crowd during the night hours. So Montparnasse is the lucky soul blessed with the vision of countless students clad in old clothes or pajamas, wandering through the aisles and watching the displays under the crude light that give them blemish faces. This, and their shuffling gait between the shelves, give him the impression the zombie apocalypse has already happened and no one but him realizes yet. They all look half-dead, and exhausted, too much to talk to him. Good. Not that he wants to, anyway. 

One of them, erroneously thinking that he may be interested in anything else than his money, mutters "Finals week, you know ?" above his change. Montparnasse just nods. No, he doesn't know, he doesn't care, either, can he just go and leave him to count the remaining seconds before he can dash out of here ? Luckily, the man grabs his cigarettes and goes away, to his relief. No one else tries to say anything, not even a small lady buying a bunch of sad-looking vegetables - who makes soup at one in the morning -, probably sensing his murderous mood. 

As soon as he sees the door open to reveal the daytime clerk, Montparnasse rips the ridiculous cap off his hair, shoves it in his pocket, grabs his jacket and bag in the tiny cubicle they call a changing room, and rushes past the other, out in the street. The sun is not even out, barely shining behind the buildings around him, and the wind is cold, almost cutting. There are a few people hurrying down the side-walk a bit farther. For a Tuesday morning, it's really silent. During a few seconds, Montparnasse feels at peace, with the wind stroking his face and the first rays of sun reaching him. But the magic doesn't last. It's just 6AM on Tuesday, people are going to work, and he just spent ten hours locked in a convenience store, surrounded by weirdos. He's exhausted, hungry, and he's sure his hair is awful. And he smells of cheap cleaning soap and desperation now. 

Luckily, he makes it home quickly enough. The others aren't home. Good. He wouldn't want them to see him in his apron. Or talk to him. The only thing he wants right now is food, sleep, and something freeing him from that store. Sadly, all he can find is some chicken leftover that escaped Gueulemer's appetite, and a bed that's not made but is horizontal and more or less comfortable. He'll have to find something to get free, he thinks, munching on his chicken. But for now, two out of three is not that bad of a score. 

~*~

On Tuesday, Montparnasse is almost on time, and takes his place behind the counter, ignoring the disgruntled expression of his coworker while they leave. He pulls the cap out of his pocket, flattens it a little - no way he'd put it properly in front of a mirror at home, he'd have to cross the town with that hideous thing on his head - and put it where it belongs. He then leans on the counter and gets ready as must as he can for what is awaiting him.

The first hour is very quiet. Two people come in, buy a few things Montparnasse doesn't pay attention to, and leave. Good. The only downside is that time seems to get to a screeching halt each time he takes his eyes off the clock, but at least it's mostly silent, if he cuts off the muffled screams from the students, bar patrons and various other individuals making a show of themselves in the street.

The hand is barely past ten when the bell over the door ring loudly when it's all but slammed against the door and someone barges inside. Montparnasse looks up from the nail polish he's carefully applying, just fast enough to get a glimpse of something very colourful dashing between the aisles towards the back. The person is talking, or at least is using their voice. Unless it's the air-conditioning he can hear. Either way, Montparnasse doesn't care and goes back to his art. 

It takes him a few seconds to notice that the buzzing noise is getting closer. It sounds a bit like words, mumbled together. The person, a boy with short hair, is wrapped in a scarf at least a kilometre long, in colours that clash horribly. He's muttering to himself, too fast for anyone not under a hefty dose of crack to understand a word, and drops a load of bandages on the counter. Montparnasse can only look, bewildered. There're at least fifteen boxes there, all the pre-cut ones they had in stock, a bunch of small ones for blisters, and two of the extra-long rolls. He half-tempted to ask what he plans to do with all that, but he doesn't. First, because he doesn't care. He's not there to make friends. And second, because he doesn't really want to know what a guy could do with that many band-aids. He's extremely clumsy, or maybe he's planning something sinister. Either way, none of his business. Montparnasse rings the supplies, and the boy piles them in his arms again. He smiles at him - smiles ! like they're friends and he's happy to see him or something - and leaves. Montparnasse just watches after him, bewildered. And shrugs. Not the first weirdo, not the last. And it's none of his business, what he wants to do with a hospital’s worth of bandages. Not at all. 

No one comes in during the next hour and Montparnasse is ready to chalk the meeting with the Strange Guy With The Bandages to that one weird encounter you have to have one per night and hope that maybe the rest of the night will be as quiet, when the bells above the door tear his wishes to shreds. At least the man who enters is not talking to himself. He looks calm and collected, nerd glasses on his nose and a book stuck under his arm, not-too-bad undercut carefully combed on the side. He's wearing a sleeveless sweater on a shirt, and Montparnasse is half-tempted to roll his eyes loudly - because that's one of his talents -, but he goes back to his nail polish instead. If nothing else, at least the man isn’t wearing a _bowtie_ to go with the rest of him that screams "already old and stuffy at twenty and probably horribly boring". 

The guy is back two minutes later, and Montparnasse looks at his face because if he does, he doesn't have to look at the ugly thing he calls a sweater. And the guy probably _proud_ of it. Luckily, he's not too bad looking, if one is into tall nerds. Which Montparnasse is decidedly not. The guy holds his gaze for a few agonizing seconds. Then he puts a whole case of energy drinks on the counter. Montparnasse can't help but look down, then back at his face. The man's expression doesn't change, save for a raised eyebrow, challenging him to say something. 

Montparnasse slips back into his expressionless mask, and rings the cans, one by one, without breaking eye contact. The monotonous ringing is the only noise in the shop, and the man doesn't move or blink, to the point that Montparnasse starts wondering if he's really human or an alien trying to find something on Earth to fuel his spaceship. 

He almost doesn't want to avert his eyes and see how long they can play this game, but he doesn't want the guy to think he's flirting with him or something. He glances at the price on the register, looks back up. The guy is grinning - _grinning_ \- at him. He holds up the money, still without looking, and Montparnasse doesn't even need to look at the coins to know it's the exact sum. He probably counted while Montparnasse was distracted, but he's not even sure of it, he looked away for maybe one second. He all but shoves the receipt in the other's face. The guy grabs it with his case, addresses Montparnasse – who can only glare in return - a very polite "good night", and strolls out. Montparnasse can only stare after him in disbelief, not really sure of what just happened. 

He regrets it immediately, because the next guy who comes in is an eyesore. It's a shame, because he's tall, buff, and quite handsome in a lumberjack kind of way, and not the fake-lumberjack-true-hipster way. The true and tried man-from-the-mountains-who-carries-chopped-trees-for-fun lumberjack. This would be a sight to behold, especially with the tattoos on his arms. Except that all this muscular glory is clad in the most godawful shirt Montparnasse has ever met. To say that the man got dressed without the lights on would be a good guess ; that shirt is such a shade of neon that it probably glows in the dark. Montparnasse can't even look at it for more than five seconds, and he lowers his eyes. Big mistake : the socks he's wearing are exactly the same shade. He fixates on the counter, where a shirt-shaped blob keeps swaying back and forth on the white plastic, so stark that he's sure they're burnt on his retinae forever. Or they will be once the guy walks to the register and he's faced with a very large expanse of neon fabric.

Montparnasse dives under the counter, grabs his bag, and riffles through it with the fury of a man lost in the desert looking for his last ration of water. For a minute, he thinks he has left them at home, and he's going to have to endure the neon nuisance without any protection. But just before he abandons all hope and runs out of here, his fingers find the protective case, hidden behind his emergency waistcoat. Quickly, he pushes the shades on his nose, and gets up as the man walks up to the counter. Said man looks him up and down in a way that doesn't make Montparnasse very comfortable, stops on the dark lenses.

\- Nice glasses, he simply says. 

_Of course, nice. They are Prada_, Montparnasse thinks. But to be fair, he expected something way more aggressive from someone who seems to exude fratboy out of every pore. And wears neon. He nods, because nice or not, he's not going to start small-talking with anyone. The man doesn't seem to formalize. He grabs his bottle of gin, pays, addresses a salute to Montparnasse and leaves. He's followed later by a bunch of customers, no one dressed as badly as him. Still, Montparnasse keeps the shades. At least it weirds people out, and they don't try to talk to him. Perfect. Now, if only they could not come in, things would be as perfect as they can in that situation. 

And of course with that line of thinking, it doesn't last. He's well in his last hour of work before sweet, sweet release, and already counting the minutes that still prevents him from enjoying his freedom, when in comes none other than the man responsible for his predicament. Javert strolls to the counter, stops two feet from it, and stands there, hands in his back, feet martially apart, eyeing Montparnasse up and down. The silence stretches, very uncomfortable, and Montparnasse lets it, because he'll be damned if he talks to a policeman without being prompted. Not that it would be funny to see Javert's face when he uses his corporate voice on him, but no. He just crosses his arms and glares him down. Well, tries to.

\- Are you behaving ? Javert finally asks

Montparnasse doesn't move, doesn't blink.

\- Are you behaving ? Javert repeats, louder.

Montparnasse makes a show of rolling his eyes, remembering too late that Javert can't see it behind his shades. He adds a flick of his head and a heavy sigh to get the message across.

\- Yes, Mr Officer. I'm behaving. Like a good clerk.

Javert doesn't smile. Then again, Montparnasse is sure that he doesn't know how. 

\- You know what you have to expect if you step out of line.

\- Yes, Batman. You'll throw me in the deepest, darkest cell you have and leave me to rot. Or you'll drink my blood, I'm not really sure which one. Sacrifice me to The Law. 

Javert frowns, and for a second, Montparnasse is sure he's going to explode and arrest him on the spot. Which kind of annoys him, he doesn't really want another mark on his file. Especially since that one will be way heavier than the last. But Javert seems to discover a hint of humour hidden under all his layers of sternness and righteousness, and he just scoffs.

\- Be careful, boy. I'll keep my eye on you.

\- Oh, I don't doubt it. 

It's maybe better that Javert seems to be impervious to the sarcasm dripping from his words. He glares him down for ten very uncomfortable seconds, then turns around and stomps out of the shop, his coat floating behind him like weirdly-shaped bat wings. Montparnasse just lets his head fall on the counter and stays like this until his coworker comes in. This time, he doesn't even take to take his cap off, just grabs his bag blindly and runs out of the shop, bumping into the other. He doesn't stop, doesn't hold at red lights, just dashes right home, buries himself in his bed, and tries to forget this day even existed and that he still has almost a week to go. Without any luck.

~*~

On Wednesday, Montparnasse almost falls back asleep after his alarm rings, and he has to run to be on time, which he hates, because he has to cut his skin care regimen short and spend less time on his hair, and he can already feel greasy and pimply twenty feet outside his home. But there's no time to run back and fix it, so he just pulls his cap over his hair as much as he does and prays that no one he knows will see him like this.

The universe must hate him, because he's not behind his counter for half an hour, when who comes in but Eponine. She doesn't spot him right away, and he's tempted to dive under the counter and hide there until she leaves. He doesn't, because not only will he ruin what's left of his brushing, but she'll probably drag him out of here. So he just stands and wait. He doesn't even try to pray that she doesn't say anything. That would be a waste of a prayer, and he needs all the good will he can gather to go through the rest of the week. 

Finally, Eponine walks to the counter with a handful of snacks she dumps on the counter. She's playing with her phone, and Montparnasse has a sliver of hope that she'll keep doing it and not even looking at him. But when he announces her total, she does. And stares. A large smile appears on her face, the kind that makes Montparnasse want to run away very far and very fast. 

\- Well, well, she drawls. What do we have here ? 

Montparnasse doesn't answer, just glares. With no effect, of course.

\- Look at you, she adds, way too delighted with the situation. All... prim and proper. Respectable, even. 

\- Watch your mouth.

\- Or what ? You'll refer to your manager ? 

Montparnasse refrains from anything drastic that he may regret. Not while he's here, at least. Revenge will have to wait. Eponine leans on the counter, and asks with a very large, very scary smile : 

\- Do you know what I want ? 

\- No, enlighten me. To run away and never come back ? Dye your hair blond ? Pontmercy paying attention to you ?

Eponine's smile disappears so fast he can almost hear it break. He's aware that he crossed a line with the Pontmercy part ; this is still a very sensitive point for her, and he fucked up a little. He doesn't apologize because he never does, but he shrugs, does that vague gesture with his hands that the others in Patron-Minette and Eponine know mean he realizes he did something wrong but didn't really mean to. 

\- Ring that shit, Eponine growls. 

She doesn't hit him, at least. Montparnasse starts scanning her purchase. A flash startles him, and his head snaps up. Eponine's phone is pointed towards him, and she's grinning again.

\- What the fuck ? he hisses.

\- Payback, bitch. That may teach you to shut up, next time. 

\- And what are you going to do with that ? Montparnasse asks cautiously.

\- Dunno. Maybe I'll blow it to poster size and put it on every wall in town, if you keep yapping like that.

\- I'm mute.

He finishes running her purchases at light speed, hoping to get rid of her. Sadly, she just hops on the counter to sit on it, and keeps playing on her stupid phone. He wonders if he can either grab the phone and erase the pic, or push her down the counter and take advantage of the confusion. But he doesn't _really_ want to hurt her. And she can hurt him back anyway. So he just leans against the wall of cigarettes, arms crossed, and keeps silent.

The doorbells chime again. Montparnasse doens't look up from his nails right away, because he's not interested in anything here. He only reacts when he hears Eponine gasp slightly. And almost does the same. The person who just entered is a disaster. Not in the way of Neon Dude last night ; that one at least managed to get some fitting, assorted clothes. This one.... does not. The plaid shirts are too big on their slight frame, the shoulders falling halfway down their arms. On the other side (ha !), the pants are way too short, more-so when they are rolled up and held by several colorful pins. And it doesn't even take in consideration the mess of patterns that's their outfit. One shirt is red and black, the other blue and white, and the top they are wearing looks solid, but Montparnasse is almost sure he's seen a hint of tie-dye. And are they wearing.... overalls ? He rubs his eyes, looks again. Yes, they are overalls. Denim overalls. With a front pocket ornamented with words stitched in bright green. Montparnasse didn't even think that people outside of kindergarten still wore overalls. That nightmare of an outfit is completed by army boots an ugly shade of green, with neon blue laces dragging on the floor. A small crystal hangs from their neck, catching the bleak light. There are several pins scattered on their outer shirt, as on the battered messenger bag hanging on their shoulder. Oh gods, even the bag is colourful, but drops of paint and ink rather than tie-dye. Thanks heaven for small miracles, Montparnasse thinks dryly.

He's so focused on the clothes that it takes him a few seconds to notice the person wearing them. They are tall, taller than him even, with those pant legs way above their ankles. Lanky, too, but he's not too sure ; it's a bit hard to see with those shirts hanging off them like on a coat-hanger. They have long, copper hair, gathered in a messy braid coiling on their shoulder. Flowers are caught in them, and colourful hairpins do their best to hold back a few strands away from their face.

They finally turn around to riffle around in their bag, and Montparnasse gets a clear view of their face. And they are... beautiful. Of course they are. They are in a teen movie, where the sullen hero gets forced into an uncomfortable situation, and suddenly someone comes in, the world stops pining, and everything becomes worth it because they just fell in love at first sight. Except that Montparnasse doesn't fall in love at first sight. Love is for pining idiots and Pontmercys. Not for him, not at all. He just doesn't care. But the person has high cheekbones, and a pointy nose, and more freckles on their cheeks, nose and forehead, like a galaxy. Their face is framed by a few strands of hair that draw pretty little curls on their skin and blow around as soon as they move.

They walk to the register, carrying a bunch of merchandise. And as does every person who sports extra long laces and doesn't tie them : they stumble, and all their stuff scatter on the counter. Montparnasse has to jump back to avoid a heavy box of sugar. Luckily for his shoes, the cardboard doesn't rip. He picks it up, puts it back on the counter, stops an apple from running away. 

\- Thank you, you saved my grocery.

Montparnasse looks up, ready to tell them to go fuck themselves and stick that sarcasm where the sun doesn't shine. However, all that comes out of his mouth is a strangled "ngk". The person is looking at them, smiling. But it's not the - very nice, very gentle - smile that hits him. It's the eye-colour. Or rather, colours. Both are clear and soft, but the left one is green as leaves, while the right one is a rich golden brown. Montparnasse doesn't want to think they shine like gemstones because he's still not a sullen and smitten goth boy. But they do shine under the neon lights, or maybe just from their personality... He almost punches himself in the face. Eponine is snickering lightly, not missing anything, and he's sure he'll hear about it later. He'll hear about it _a lot_. _Play it cool_, he thinks, *focus. You can do it. You're a pro.* Well no, he's not, but he can act the part. At least until the weird, pretty person leaves, and then he can scream all he wants. 

He scans all the things, one by one, all the while trying to remember what he's supposed to say. He can _feel_ the person's gaze on him, nailing him in place, invading his personal space. The world reduces to this, that presence, the rhythm of the beeping. Finally, everything is scanned without him making a fool of himself. The person opens their wallet, pulls out a note.

\- Sorry, they apologize, I don't have change.

\- Don't problem.

_What ?_. Eponine snickers, and he really wants to push her down the counter, but he can't. Even if he really, really wants. The person just tilts their head, a hint of confusion on their face. 

\- Don't worry. No problem, Montparnasse quickly amends.

He starts counting the change, starting over when he loses trace. His hands are shaking, the person can see it, Eponine can see it, the whole world can see it, and he doesn't know why. He needs to focus. Focus until the world reduces itself to his register, and he presses the right buttons at last. _It's just a goddamn twig dressed like a hippie fresh out of the garden_, he repeats himself, _don't pay attention, they'll leave once they're done. Good riddance._ But his hands still shake a little when he hands them a handful of coins. They put it in their front pocket, gather their purchase, smile at him once more, and leave, their braid falling from their shoulder to dance on their back, like a pendulum. Montparnasse watches it swing until they're out of the door, their gaudy shirts getting lost in the crowd. 

\- Careful, you idiot, your eyeballs are gonna fall out. 

Eponine's voice snaps him back to Earth. He glares at her, but she's not openly laughing at him. No, she's staring at him, almost... seriously ? He can see the gears grinding in her mind, and he doesn't like it. At all.

\- Why are you still there ? he groans. Don't you have better things to do ?

\- Than see you act like a complete idiot ? I'd pay actual money for that.

\- Then pay. 

\- Nope. 

\- Then leave.

\- And miss your stupid face next time Flowerchild comes in ? 

\- I do _not_....

\- Oh yes, she cuts him. You totally do. Googly eyes and all that. Admit it. You like them.

\- I do not. Shut up.

Miraculously, she obeys him. He walks to the cigarette wall, starts sorting them again, even if he knows they are perfectly sorted. But it has the merit of cutting him from the rest of the shop and let him collect his thoughts. There's a strange noise in his ears, a low rumbling one that sounds a little like the sea coming and going. At least he doesn't need to focus on the cigarettes until he gets tunnel vision. But on the other hand, his mind seems to run idle, and he feels strangely.... light. Probably getting down with something. And it has nothing to do with that strange person, whatever Eponine might think.

When he finishes, his mind is back to its usual, sharpen self, and the noise in his ears has receded. He still feels a bit faint, probably a hint of fever, nothing that a bit of rest will cure. Eponine keeps looking at him, but she doesn't harp on anymore about what just happened, and he's grateful for this. They keep chatting about this and that, until she realizes that it's late, Gavroche is waiting for her and she needs to go home. She gathers her snacks, punches him in the arm and leaves. Montparnasse just leans on the counter and gets ready to be bored out of his mind. 

As soon as he's free, he runs all the way home, barely takes time to gobble something that can pass as food, and dives in his bed, horrid hair and all. He squeezes his eyes shut really hard, hopes against all hopes that this sudden fever won't ruin his beauty sleep. He doesn't even have time to finish that thought, that he's already fast asleep. 


	2. Thursday - Friday

On Thursday, Montparnasse is surprised to wake up minutes before his alarm. He grabs the mirror always faithfully put on the box that serves as his night-stand, checks his face under every angle. Not a blemish, not a hint of a red mark. His skin is tight and as fair as ever, his eyes perfect, without the slightest red marring the white. He was expecting a bad night, what with that strange fever yesterday, and to wake up tired, disoriented, or worse, with a sore. Which would have make him call in sick, and then trouble would have been knocking at his door. Or Javert. Same thing.

This time, he takes all the time he needs to go through his beauty regimen, first for his skin, then for his hair, styling it properly. He ponders on the use of a little make-up, but that shop is not worth him putting his best. Mussed-up hair will do. A trip in the kitchen brings him only a slightly hit apple. Not very good. He takes it anyway. He'll have to grab some snack from the shop later. The owner will berate him for that, but he'll just have to bat his eyelashes at him to get him off his back. Montparnasse shrugs his jacket on, ignoring the shivers running up his back at this thought, and out the door he goes.

He walks through the streets leading to the shop, his shoulder hunched up a little to block the wind sweeping through the streets even as the sun is still shining on him. It's cold, fall is not that far away. He'll need a new coat sooner or later, something warm and solid that will last him a year or two. He glances at the students around him, eyeing their clothes up and down, but none of their pricey coats catches his eye. Some of them may feel warm, but they are horrible, badly cut, in horrid colours. Overpriced hipster rags.

Thinking of crappy rags brings the image of the person from yesterday to his mind, and he almost stops. Why is he now thinking about that hippie reject ? Probably that style. Those shirts were so awful they probably burnt his retinae, and he'll see them everywhere he goes, an awful plaid pattern overlapping everything he sees. He shudders. What a cruel twist of fate that would be. To only be able to see everything in plaid. Tartan. Tartan everywhere. He'd rather be strangled to death with a scarf made of synthetic yarn rather than live in a world of gaudy stripes. Well he'll just have to close his eyes next time Flowerchild comes in the shop, and he'll be find. If they do. Which they will probably. Not that it is of any interest for him, of course.

The daytime clerk looks at him funnily when he comes in, but he doesn't spare her a glance, just goes to take his place behind the counter. He ponders for a moment if it's worth ruining his hair with his cap. But he needs to be on his best behaviour, and it means wearing that horrid thing. He puts it as slowly as possible, trying to keep his hair in place. He'll need to check in a cooler door later if it's not too mussed, but he's sure it's still better than those last days. _Anything_ would. So he puts on his most polite - well, his less aggressive - attitude, and waits.

And waits. And waits more. But the doorbell rests silent, as does the rest of the shop. It's... eerie. The neon lights flicker to life, instantly banishing every shadow, bathing everything in a crude, blueish light. _Perfect, now I'm a horror movie_, Montparnasse snickers. _Still better than a teen flick_. He wants to look as unimpressed as he can, but the stillness everywhere around him is starting to run on his nerves. It weights on him, and he suddenly feels very lonely and not that strong. The reds of a nearby pyramid of cans is assaulting his eyes, way too bright and cheerful. Almost looking like.... _Don’t think like that. Nope. It's not blood, it's a fucking ton of coke, and you're not in a horror movie. Now stop being an idiot._

The scolding doesn't do much for his mood, but fortunately, the doorbell breaks the quiet around him, chiming happily when the door opens, letting a bit of the outside buzz, reminding him that he's not alone in the world. A whirlwind of colours crosses the door, and Montparnasse's heart gives a small tug. He ignores it ; there's no reason to be affected by the person (boy ? man ?) who just came in. Nothing interesting to see in a bundle of energy zooming between the shelves. Montparnasse walks back to the counter, as leisurly as possible.

The other is back two minutes later, with an armful of sugary snacks he dumps on the counter. If he was the least worried for him, Montparnasse would advice to cut on the sugar, maybe it would help with the bouncing ; even as he's just standing in front of him, the man - because despite the small stature and wild curls, it's a man, around his age - is almost jumping up and down. He's babbling, too, Montparnasse doesn't know if he's talking to him or just vocalizing his thoughts, but he doesn't care beside a very dire need for him to shut up. Why would he care about the person he's buying a snack for and who, if Montparnasse is following, is too precious a person to let them wait and can't eat some lower-quality chips, and certainly not those soggy peanut-flavoured thingies and blah blah blah. He needs to tune him out, or he'll probably strangle him with his bowtie. Yes, because he's wearing a bowtie. Montparnasse has to applaude his courage, because he didn't think people between five and seventy-five years old still wore bowties outside of the circus. He should introduce him to the other dude with his sweater vest, they'd look amazing together... except that not, they'd look awful. Awful-er. Not that Montparnasse cares, of course, he just wants that nuisance in a pink polo shirt out of his shop. 

Finally, _finally_, the pink babbling nuisance is gone with his sugary poison, and Montparnasse can go back to his... well, nothing, since he needs to wait for the next customer, and he really, really doesn't want to go musing in the aisles about how everything looks awful under those lights and a setting for a horror movie and... No. Better go back to fix his hair or try to commit suicide with a Mars bar wrapper. Anything to help doing his time faster. 

He's munching on his second chocolate bar of the evening, trying not to think too much about the telltale effect of chocolate on one's skin, when the door opens again, causing another little hitch of his breath. Because he's surprised by the violence it opens with, hitting the stand behind it, and the small tornado that dashes inside and out of his sight in an instant. Great, another weirdo. He really missed them. That one sounds familiar, though. And he thinks "sounds" because, like the one before him, he's babbling. This, and a glimpse on the anti-theft mirror above the shelf shows him a very, very colourful scarf. Very long. Cool. So Bandage Guy is back with a vengeance.

And with the whole stock of rubbing alcohol, more bandages, an elastic one for sprained ankles, and at least a dozen bottles of sanitizer. Montparnasse must make a very surprised -or stupid - face, because the guy stops his muttering to give him what could be an endearing smile if Montparnasse did have an iota of interest in anyone here. 

\- My friends tend to get hurt easily, he explains.

What do you have to answer to that kind of things ? Montparnasse just shrugs, and hopes the guy is not launching in a tirade. He doesn't, just piles his stuff in the messenger bag that seems bottomless. He smiles again, _waves goodbye_ and leaves in a whirlwind of multicolour yarn. Montparnasse just stares after him. What was that ? Why is that guy so _cheerful_ and _nice_ ? He almost sounds like he _likes_ Montparnasse. Weirdo. But not really in a bad way. Not that much.

People come and go, after that, and Montparnasse is kept busy enough that he doesn't have too much time to reflect on his looks, the atmosphere of the shop, or people's clothes. Who is he trying to kid, he always has time to judge people's clothes. It doesn't ask for much concentration, and it's always really fun to do. Especially since the shop is located in what could be the most hipstery place in town, with all those students around, and the bars and shops and everything else that forms their natural habitat. Perfect breeding ground for hipsters. And thus, for some really awful outfits. But none to the level of combining several plaid patterns. Not to mention the denim overalls, the army boots, and the... whole of them. Luckily, none of his patrons offends him with their clothes as Flowerchild did with _that_ outfit. Thank God for small miracles. But each time the doorbell chimes, his heart gives a little off-rhythm beat, and his annoyance level shots up. When will he be in peace ? Probably never.

It's a little past eleven, and the shop is a little less populated now. Montparnasse enjoys a bit of rest on his cellphone, when a flash of orange catch the corner of his eye. Immediately, he gets up and turns around. But his 

(hopes drop)

mood changes slightly when he notices that the hair is short, in curls, and _very_ orange instead of coppery, and if the person is wearing plaid, at least it's only one. Okay, it's purple, and clashing a lot with the hair. But far from the train-wreck that was Flowerchild. He's smaller, too, but he's always been smaller, for as long as Montparnasse has known him. 

He doesn't move from his spot against the wall of cigarettes, but he gives him his trademark lazy grin, the first genuine smile he's given all week.

\- Hello, Alexandre.

\- Do not call me Alexandre, Feuilly answers automatically, but there's a hint of a smile lost in all those freckles.

\- So, what does bring my baby brother in this den of... whatever ? 

\- Do I have to remind you again that I'm older than you ? 

\- Whatever. You'll still be my baby brother.

Feuilly rolls his eyes, but Montparnasse wants to think there's a fondness here. Well hidden, of course. 

\- So ? he asks. What can I serve my baby brother ?

\- Gimme a pack of smokes and cut the "baby brother" crap. 

Montparnasse turns to grab a pack. He's kinda amazed to remember which ones Feuilly prefers, it's been a while since they've spent time together.

\- Here, he says, putting them in front of him. 

Feuilly grabs them with the hast of the thirsty man suddenly being offered a glass of water. He rips the cellophane away, then seems to remember that he's still in a shop and can't just light inside. Sighing, he puts the packs in his shirt pocket. Montparnasse watches him, amused.

\- These things can stunt your growth, you know ? 

\- Fuck you, comes the automatic answer, assorted with a raised middle finger. 

\- And, Montparnasse asks as he cashes the cigarettes in, how is life treating you ? 

Because fuck it, Feuilly might be the only person outside of Patron-Minette he feels like making small talk with. 

\- As usual. Lots of work, homework, lessons, you know the drill.

He shrugs, as if Montparnasse can't see the rings under his eyes. Feuilly has always been very ambitious, driven by his will to get better, to make himself a better place, by his work and efforts, while Montparnasse has always cruised by and opted for a life of leisure. He's tempted to diss Feuilly's efforts, tell him that he's killing himself and shouldn't work so hard when you can earn a living by just a flick of a knife. But he doesn't, because he does respect Feuilly, if not his choices, and he doesn't want to hurt his feelings. Also, Feuilly probably knows that he's working too hard and is exhausted, better than Montparnasse. So he just nods.

\- Working where ?

\- Library, mostly. The coffee shop beside the library, too. And a few shifts here and there.

\- Got any free time, with all that ?

\- I make do. 

\- How is the art going ?

Feuilly looks pleased that he did remember, a bit puzzled too. Montparnasse pointedly looks at the ink-stained fingers. They chat about art for a few minutes, and Feuilly even gives him his Instagram to see what he makes, before the need of nicotine becomes too strong to resist. As he's turning to leave, Montparnasse notices the bright red pin on his bag. In white is written "les Amis de l'ABC". It rings a bell somewhere in Montparnasse's mind. Maybe he's heard the name somewhere, or seen it, or... 

It finally hits him : it's that stupid little clique of students that likes to cause mayhem in the town center, block everything with their protests and wave those stupid signs. He's seen them around once or twice, a bunch of students with way too much time in their hands, protesting this or that. They are led by a not-bad-looking blond who's always furious at the world. Montparnasse's opinion is that they just like to make life difficult for anyone and get arrested. He couldn't give two shits about them, but maybe.... He can try.

\- Say, he starts in the most offhand tone he can find, still hanging around those students ?

Feuilly looks at him like he's searching on his face the reason of this question. 

\- Yeah, he finally answers.

Montparnasse starts arranging the sweets beside the register, in the most casual way.

\- Saw one of your friends, earlier that week. 

\- You're gonna need to be more precise.

Feuilly's tone is suspicious, now. 

\- Let's see. Tall, ginger, braid, dressed in the dark...

\- Gingerbread, uh ?

He's smiling when Montparnasse glares at him. 

\- I know him, yes. 

And he doesn't have anything. Fuck, he's going to play hard to get. Well, to talk. And Montparnasse doesn't know how to get the information out of him. He already got that the person in the gaudy shirts is a man, but he can get more. 

\- Kind of a hippie, really. Who still wears overalls ?

Feuilly just looks at him, and Montparnasse has the uncomfortable impression that he's reading through him like one of his favourite books. 

\- How about you cut the crap and tell me what you really want ?

Montpanrasse abandons his sweets to face him.

\- You know what I want.

\- Maybe I just want you to tell me.

\- And maybe I don't want to tell.

\- Then maybe I don't want to disclose personal informations about my friend.

They glare at each other for a few moments. Montparnasse doesn't even know what to say. _They dress funnily ? I want to know where the last shop aimed at clowns is in this town ? I need to know their name to curse them with better fashion sense ?_ Not that it's a curse, but for them it'll probably be. No, that doesn't make any sense. He doesn't really know why he wants to learn the name of Flowerchild. But there's something in him that jumped at the occasion and asked, before he could acknowledge it and bury it in the depths of his mind. And now Feuilly is thinking things he's not supposed to think, he's having _ideas_ about him, and Montparnasse doesn't like it. Feuilly is going to think he _cares_, he has an _interest_ in someone, and he really doesn't. Not at all.

He's ready to jump on Feuilly to poke him in the ribs or some equally cruel punishment, when the door opens again. He doesn't look right away, because he doesn't want to give Feuilly the satisfaction of averting his eyes. But there's a new flash of orange, or rather, copper. Copper hair in long curls. Copper hair he's thought about a lot. Today, it's gathered in a bun, held in place with some kind of very fine net, the small flowers caught under the silvery strings. It's a relief not to see the dreadful assemblage of plaid, but they replaced it with a heavy cardigan in a very bright peach colour. Judging by how long the sleeves are, and how lopsided some parts are, they probably knitted it themselves. There's still some denim, in the form of cut-off barely reaching their thighs, leaving way to expanses of liberty pattern. Lots and lots of liberty patterns, spreading above on a shirt two sizes too large for them, and below on long, leggings-encased legs diving right into those army boots. They walk to the counter, politely greets Montparnasse, then start chatting with Feuilly, leaving him all the time in the world to look at them and wonder why his heart rate is suddenly twice what it was before. 

From up close and when he's not busy counting money and keeping control of his hair, his face and his speech, they look even more like some kind of badly-dressed fairy. The curls hanging around their face turn the ugly light into strands of gold. The freckles climb on their high cheekbones, gather on their forehead, and stumble down their upturned nose, because of course they do have an upturned nose. A touch of purple eyeshadow brings out their eyes in a way that's totally not interesting at all. With their shiny hair strewn with silver, and their long fingers waving around as they talk, they look like a fairy who'd lost their way and found shelter here, between the colorful candies and the drain cleaner.

Finally, after ten minutes of a chat that Montparnasse didn't hear, they hug Feuilly goodbye, wave at Montparnasse, and away they go. Montparnasse almost expects to see them float above the floor, but no, they walk in that fairy bouncing pace of them. He knows he must be gaping, and Feuilly is looking at him again, and he must look like some kind of very stupid goldfish, but he just can't find the will to pick his jaw up and get his countenance back. In a few seconds, certainly. 

Feuilly's voice finally cuts him out of his reverie.

\- He really has an effect on you. 

Montparnasse wants to retort something smart, but he's still under the spell, and all that comes out of his mouth is a strangled noise. Feuilly studies him for a bit longer ; just as Montparnasse comes back to his senses, he gathers his stuff, flings his bag on his shoulder.

\- Don't worry, he says with a grin that's not entirely sarcastic, Prouvaire has this effect on everyone. 

And with that and a salute, he's gone, leaving behind a smell of paint and cigarette, and a confused Montparnasse. Prouvaire. So the fairy is named Prouvaire. Probably a family name, since Feuilly always uses them and even insists that Montparnasse does the same. Then again, hippie child could have hippie parents, who would totally be able to call their baby "Prouvaire" or some other weird flowery name. Not that he knows of any flower named Prouvaire. _Except one_ whispers a snide voice that sounds a little bit like Eponine, but he does a very good job of squashing it. 

The rest of the night is a daze. People come and go, things move, Montparnasse presses buttons and sorts coins, but he couldn't for the life of him recount anything. He must have done things right, because no one is yelling at him, or running after him when he leaves. He has better things to think about anyway. So the fairy is apparently a fairy boy, his name is Prouvaire, and he has a very cute smile and a very horrid fashion sense. Montparnasse still tries to think he doesn't care, but he can't even convince himself. Fairy Boy has him under his spell, and he can't believe it. He has a crush. He. has. a crush. on some kind of fairy boy. who can't even dress himself. He doesn't want to admit it, he can't admit it. It's not possible. How can he ? They didn't even exchange more than two sentences ! And he doesn't believe in that "love at first sight" bullshit, because the world doesn't work like that. Maybe for other people, it does, especially when faced with someone as beautiful as Montparnasse, of course. But that's because he's dashing. But that Prouvaire... Well he's cute, there's no need to deny it. And he looks quite nice, friendly, even. And the eyes.... Okay, he does have a crush. 

And he's totally lost. What's one supposed to do with a crush ? He's always been the one people crush on, the one seducing everyone. Never has he been the one with feelings. He's supposed to act on it, that he knows. But he'd be damn if he knows _how_. The only solution would be to ask someone, but who ? It's not as if he's surrounded by excellent references. Eponine is forever pining after her Pontmercy (or after Cosette, he's not too sure sometimes), and it's not as if the rest of Patron-Minette knows anything about love. Or feelings. Or fairies. No, this is something he's going to have to deal with on his own. Fucking fantastic.

~*~

On Friday, Montparnasse is awaken, not by the sweet, shrill sound of his alarm, but by the unmistakable sound of someone rummaging around in the next room. Seeing as the soundproofing in their flat was probably made with butter or something, it kind of sounds like someone is digging a tunnel just under his head. He glances at his phone, groans. He should have been able to sleep half an hour more. Well, what an amazing start of the day.

He crawls out of bed, his eyes still full of sleep. The last images of the dreams still dance in his mind, blurry visions that doesn't want to leave him, despite the loud voice he can now hear through the door and wall. He makes his way down the cramped hallway, and barges in the living room. Babet doesn't even look up, sprawled as he is on the sagging, lumpy couch.

\- Why don't you just shut up and work, kid ?

Claquesous, lying on the ground in front of their old battered wardrobe, sends a nod to Montparnasse, and gets back to dig in. 

\- Can you tell me what's the ruckus and why you think it's a good idea to ruin my beauty sleep by yelling so early ?

\- It's 7 PM, Babet answers. As for your beauty sleep...

Montparnasse sends him a glare scary enough to send lessen men running and crying to their mothers, but Babet is used to it and just turns his attention to Claquesous, who's trying to pull something out of the lower door. Seeing as he's not going to get an answer, Montparnasse makes his way to the kitchen. Of course, there's no coffee left, and he has to make some more. Scoundrels, all of them. You can't even count on your partners in crime to leave you some coffee. Talk about a tight knit group.

He's walking back to the living-room when something white runs through his legs, almost knocking him down. He hardly prevents his cup from tipping over, then the thing has already disappeared. Immediately after, Claquesous rams into him, sending his coffee on his shirt. This time, he drops the cup, trying to get the cloth off before it burns him. Claquesous doesn't wait for him to exact revenge, and runs after the intruder. 

After a long string of curses, and once he's not in danger of being badly burnt anymore, Montparnasse turns to Babet, who hasn't moved an inch. 

\- What the fuck ? he asks eloquently.

\- Do not fucking swear.

\- What the fucking fuck is that fucking thing, and what does it do here, and what is that fucking mess ?

\- Remind me to wash your mouth with soap, kid.

Montparnasse kicks him when he walks by him, and goes to rummage through a pile of clothes and other things in the corner of the room, trying to find something correct to wear. Throwing Gueulemer's gigantic shirts and Babet's hideous purple tees aside, he asks again :

\- So ? What was that ?

\- Something went awry.

\- No shit. I could have guessed that myself.

Montparnasse waits, but nothing more comes. Usual with Babet. He probably messed up and doesn't want to acknowledge it. He won't say anything, not even under threat of torture.

Claquesous walks in five minutes later, out of breath and empty handed. Montparnasse looks at him and raises a quizzical eyebrow. Instead of answering, Claquesous turns to Babet.

\- It escaped.

\- Told you.

\- Yes, well, maybe it wouldn't have if you had done anything else than sitting there.

\- I brought it here. The rest was up to you.

\- Excuse me, Montparnasse cuts them, but could someone tell me what happened before I start kicking your ass ?

\- You're welcome to try, kid.

\- It happened, Claquesous explains, that Babet here decided that stealing expensive things would be a good way to earn a bit of money. Trafficking goods is always a sure value. Sadly, he decided that the most expensive thing he could be his hands on was a goose.

There's a very long, very heavy silence.

\- A what ? Montparnasse finally asks.

\- A goose.

He turns towards Babet.

\- You stole a goose.

\- Yes, kid. I stole a goose.

\- What in heaven's sake went through that brain of yours to steal a goose ?

\- It was a very prized goose. Important bird. 

\- So you decided to steal it.

\- Do you know what "prized" and "expensive" mean, kid ?

Montparnasse is ready to bite, but Claquesous doesn't let him.

\- The thing that he didn't take in consideration is that this bird is a real _nuisance_. As soon as it was here, it started pushing things off the table and pulling every cable it could put its beak on. Then it hid in the cupboard and... well, you know the end.

\- And now ? Babet asks. Where is that fucking thing ?

\- Away. It jumps through the window, and went down the emergency ladder with its little flappers. And if you want to run after it, please, be my guest. But I'm not going near that thing again. Ever. It bites.

\- Scared of the little bird, maybe ?

Claquesous answers by a very rude and very creative gesture. Babet shrugs and lays down on the couch again, muttering about kids and missed opportunities. Montparnasse finally unearths a shirt out of the laundry pile, and puts it on. It's a bit rumpled, and it's not that young, but it'll do. The ruffles around the neck are a nice touch. Not that he needs to wear his Sunday best to go to work, but the Devil and seduction have this in common that they are in the details. And Montparnasse is always ready to seduce. He throws his jacket on and leaves, abandonning Claquesous, Babet and Gueulemer to their goose problems.

The other clerk looks at him funnily when he strolls in, but he doesn't pay her any attention. Can't he look good ? One can manage a register and not look like a bum. Sadly, he remembers too late that all those goose shenanigans early in the evening didn't gave him the opportunity to get properly ready. A glance in the nearest reflection surface tells him that his skin hasn't been properly moisturised, and his hair is sticking in every direction, to the point that he looks like someone has glued a hedgehog to his head. To think that he's crossed town like this !! Any lesser man than him would probably hide in the back to try and fix that disaster with fingers and water. Not Montparnasse. He pulls the emergency set he always has on his bag, and sets to work. He'll never congratulate himself enough for thinking of keeping some gel, a comb and a bottle of moisturiser on him after last time's disaster. He's still lacking his hair products and favourite cream, but he can't really afford to buy a second jar just to keep in his bag. The basics will have to do. Finally, he's back to his beautiful self, and he can go back to lean on the counter and wait, knowing that he looks his best. 

It's around nine o'clock when the door opens, and who comes in, but none other than the man that Eponine is pining after, Marius "Dork in love" Pontmercy. Montparnasse doesn't sneer at him, but he thinks about it very hard. The boy is cute, in a way. A face that can be looked at, clear eyes, healthy hair that deserves a cut. If only he didn't dress like a dork. Old sweaters are only endearing to one's grandmother, and his shoes are worn. There's also the small problem of his expression ; he always looks like he just fell from a cloud or just came out after being locked in a cave for twenty years. All in all, Eponine could do worse. She could do better, of course, but he's not going to tell her that.

He's not on his own, there's a girl with him, and Montparnasse is ready to hate them just because of the way Pontmercy looks at her. Also, she's pretty. Long, brown hair, very shiny, gathered in a bun, a skin to die for, eyes blue as the sky. Her outfit is not something out of the extraordinary, just a blue sundress and a leather jacket, with a pair of boots. But she has customized it well, and there's something in the way she walks... Montparnasse understands a little better now. Not that he wants to be even a second in Pontmercy's mind, but... that girl has something. She's special. And Pontmercy probably things the same, because he's giving her the most disgusting puppy eyes as she goes through the shelves. He's almost drooling at the sight. That dude's self-respect is probably nil. It's almost embarrassing. Montparnasse can only congratulate himself that's he's not as pathetic. He'd rather wear an ugly Christmas sweater, complete with fake antlers, _and_ let people take pics than act like him.

Up close, it's even more obvious. That the girl is charming, first. Her make-up is a work of art, Montparnasse, as an aesthete, can see it. He's never seen sharper eyeliner, except maybe in his mirror, and that's not even sure. She's all smiles while she pays, but he doesn't let it fool him. Should he disrespect her, he'd get his ass kicked in no time. It's also obvious that Pontmercy is head over heels for her. He's still looking at her and only her, and almost trips on his own feet to carry her purchase. Disgusting, but he can't blame him as much as he would like to. Of course, he's an idiot, and he can't see that his best friend has a crush on him, but the girl is worth it. Which makes things so much more complicated. He probably won't tell Eponine that he saw them, he doesn't want to hurt her feelings. Or think about that idiot in love again. Surely that was the worst of the evening.

He's wrong, of course.

He's known Grantaire for a while now, meeting him here and there. They tend to frequent the same places where one can find cheap alcohol, cheaper entertainment and wallets without surveillance. They are what one could consider good acquaintances. Not friends, of course, Montparnasse doesn't do friends. But he's part of the very exclusive group of people that Montparnasse doesn't mind spending some time with, even if it's just to pass the time. And Grantaire is not that bad of a company. He has a tendency to ramble for hours on end if one lets him, about everything and anything that crosses his mind, ranting about things and waxing poetry at the same time. He can be annoying sometimes when his ravings lead him in the direction of some blond guy that leaves in his general area and he becomes downright lyrical, but Montparnasse has learnt to tune him out quite effectively. It's still not worse than Babet. 

It's no wonder that Grantaire pushes the door of the shop a little after eleven. It's probably the only one where one can find alcohol at this hour without paying the extremely steep prices in bars around. Grantaire probably needs his daily dose of poison, and discovered too late that his bottles are empty. It's just surprising that he didn't see him earlier. Or more often. But when Grantaire emerges, his arms are full of bottles of lemonade and white-chocolate-coated biscuits. He smiles at Montparnasse, his usual lazy smile, but there's something else in it. 

\- See that ? he remarks. I'm straightening my act. Soon I'll even be respectable. 

\- You, respectable ? Does this mean I finally became the Queen of the Underworld ?

\- What you do during your free time doesn't concern me. But yeah, I'm cleaning up. Lemonade from now on. 

\- You became allergic to alcohol or something ? 

Grantaire throws his head back and laugh. Montparnasse is a bit afraid that he's going to launch in a tirade about his blonde and how he doesn't like to see him drinking or whatever. But he has to ask something so it's not awkward. That's what not-friends-but-quite-acquainted do.

\- Ah no, Grantaire answers. That would be the bane of my existence. No, I've taken up drawing again, and I can't do both. It messes with my hand. 

Montparnasse diligently looks at the hand he's shown. There are some drops of paint here and there, but remarkably steady. He must look a bit confused, because Grantaire explains :

\- For drawing.

Ah yes. Montparnasse remembers his tendency to draw on everything he can put his hands upon : tablecloths, napkins, receipts, people, .... Montparnasse once got a black rose on his arm, and he was almost sad to see it go. Grantaire sometimes talks about art school and how he spent his time sleeping and stealing the models ("food models" he always specifies with a wink), but it's been a while since he last mentioned it. He must have started again. Then again, either this, or he loves rolling around in paint in his free time. His hoodie was probably green at some point, but it's so stained in paint of all colours that it looks like a unicorn vomited on him. Even his jeans are multicoloured. Montparnasse doesn't want to know how he does it, but it's impressive. In a way.

\- So what are you doing ? 

The door opens again as Montparnasse listens to Grantaire talk about the painting he started, while ringing the biscuits. He doesn't pay him attention, but Grantaire does, because his speech abruptly ends in a weird, strangled sound. Ah. So this is the man he can't shut up about, except of course when said man is around, the leader of the revolution or whatever. Montparnasse has heard so much about him, he's kind of imagined some sort of god carved out of stone, ready to step down from his pedestal, lightning bold in one hand and sword in the other to smithe down his enemies. To see the man in flesh is.... underwhelming. First, he's... tiny. Like, 50 pounds soaking wet. He doesn't look a day older than seventeen, except that Grantaire wouldn't be head over heels for someone so young, and he may have mentioned one day that they were around the same age. He's cute, Montparnasse hates to concede that, with round cheeks, a small mouth with plump lips, large blue eyes lined with long lashes, and long, blond hair barely held in a ponytail. A pretty face, but nothing to write home about. 

Montparnasse steals a glance while the blond goes through the aisles, trying not to be noticed. Then again, compared to Grantaire who seems transfigured by the apparition, anything would be discreet. The guy is more a pretty doll than a vengeful god, but he could be so much better if he wasn't scowling at labels as if they personally offended him, or if there weren't purple shadows under his eyes. Boy probably thinks so much about justice and things that he only sleeps three hours per night. So much for his beauty sleep. And from here, his hair looks... frizzy. Did no one talk to him about conditioner ? It's a shame, really, a waste of pretty blond hair. 

When he finally comes to the register, Montparnasse can attest how tiny he really is. Grantaire could lean his chin on the top of his head. Judging by the way he gazes at him, he probably dreams of doing it. Blond Guy doesn't even pay Montparnasse any attention, the nerve, and starts chit-chatting with Grantaire, who looks like Christmas came early. Montparnasse starts ringing the purchases, and takes advantage of the distraction to better observe him. He may not look the part of the Sun deity, but... there's something, now that he's talking, that draws the eye to him. Some kind of... magnetism, even as he talks about nonsense, meetings, weather and the like. Something that pushes people to listen to him. Montparnasse understands a little better what Grantaire can see in him now. His words are convincing, full of fire, and Montparnasse almost wants to join his little clique of students. Almost, of course. Not that he cares. But Blond Guy is convincing.

Finally, as Montparnasse is sure he can't take any more blinding idealism, Blondie gathers his stuff, nods goodbye and leaves. Grantaire and Montparnasse both watch him go, Grantaire with starry eyes, Montparnasse with surprise. The blond hair might look frizzy and in need of a good mask, but it falls down to the small of his back in heavy curls, like a golden cascade. Montparnasse is proud of his hair, how soft he is, and he can't help but feel a little jealous. He turns to Grantaire, who hasn't lost the smitten expression, and remarks :

\- I can see why you like to see him. 

\- If you fancy him, we may have to duel at dawn, you now.

\- As if, Montparnasse scoffs. I just said I see why you like to see him. Or rather, see him go. Does he need assistance to take those jeans off ? 

Grantaire scowls, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.

\- I have to concede, those jeans fit him perfectly. 

\- Does he really wear some ? They look... painted on.

\- That, my good man, is a secret only he knows. Well, I'd like to talk about Enjolras' pants all night, and everything that's insde them, but I'm afraid that won't do any good to my work. So see you at the next biscuit shortage.

He takes his snacks and leaves, in a pace slightly faster than usual. Probably to catch up with Blondie and try to seduce him with white chocolate or talk of paintings. Montparnasse doesn't think it'll work, not with what he's seen of Blondie. But Grantaire's awful pining none of his business, after all.

Hours pass, slowly as ever. Montparnasse has taken residence in the newspaper section, reading each and every fashion magazine he can put his hands upon. With a bunch of chocolate bars and a cup of coffee from the machine in the back, it's almost comfortable. He only moves from his spot when the door opens again. And Prouvaire comes in. This time, they're dressed almost like a normal person, with cargo pants and a denim shirt open on a black t-shirt. Of course, the pockets on the pants have apparently been collected on several pants, shirts, and jackets, and sewn here and there, and no one is the same colour as the others. The denim has been embroidered with multicolour lines forming delicate arabesques on the collar and the sleeves. It's almost underwhelming that his black shirt is only wearing a Ghostbusters logo, and nothing weirder. Furthermore, their hair has been gathered in a hasty ponytail, far from the elaborate hairdos they sported the two first times. They look like they had to run to the store and just threw on whatever was at hand.

They are back at the counter barely two minutes after coming in. With three large bags of coarse salt. Montparnasse wonders what their cooking must taste like, but he doesn't say anything. Not when Prouvaire looks so rushed, and almost... out of breath ? It can't be from running through the aisles, they must have been speeding to come here too. But what could deserve so much salt ? Are they so bitter about something ? Do they need to fight a sudden ice age in their fridge ? 

They're looking at him. Oh no, they are looking at him, with those pretty eyes of them. Like they can read through his mind and know that he's wondering about them. Quick. Say something. Say something _cool_. 

\- French fry emergency, maybe ?

Oh _great_. Bravo, Montparnasse. _This_ is smooth. But Prouvaire smiles at this, and it's beautiful even if it's tired. 

\- I'm not part of the French Salt Connection, if you're wondering.

\- French fries are belgian.

_Even better. Just shut up before say anything more stupid. If you can_. He tries not to facepalm too hard. But Prouvaire just keeps smiling.

\- I know, they say softly. 

Montparnasse knows he should shut up, but he just can't help himself. 

\- So ? An emergency exorcism, maybe ? 

He laughs, to show that he's not serious. But Prouvaire's face stays serious. They gather their salt packets, give Montparnasse a new, soft smile. 

\- Good night, Montparnasse.

They have a second of hesitation, then they hand him one of the packets.

\- Here. It doesn't hurt to have something to protect yourself with.

And with this, they are gone, their long hair flowing behind them. Leaving behind a very bewildered Montparnasse and a packet full of coarse salt. Montparnasse looks at the packet, but it's, of course, a packet, made of cardboard and full of salt and nothing else. It doesn't even have googly eyes stuck on it to make it look like something else that this : a packet of salt. How it can protect him, he can't say. Or what he's supposed to do. What he knows is that the person who's been haunting his daydreams for several days now just gave him a present, and, according to what they said, they might be partially or totally fae. Which means that, if he accepts their present, he's doomed to... something, he's not really sure. He needs to brush up on his fae knowledge. Then again, it's a packet of salt, nothing more. _Then again_, it's a present. 

When he goes home that morning, the salt is stuffed at the bottom of his bag. He tiptoes through the flat as to not warn the others of his presence. It's useless because they are snoring so loudly he could tap-dance through the hallway while singing the entirety of The Phantom of the Opera, and they wouldn't notice a thing. He makes his way to his room, manages to go through his whole beauty regime without being disturbed. With great delight, he slides under the covers. Just before turning off the light, he grabs the cardboard box still in his bag, and puts it on the night-stand. Then he turns on his other side and tries to forget that he did in the fog of sleep.


	3. Saturday

On Saturday, it's raining when Montparnasse wakes up. And not raining a little. The sky has opened, and water is pouring down the street, beating on the glass panes. He crawls out of bed just enough to look through the windows. Everything is grey and black and dripping wet. Exactly the kind of weather he hates. Usually, he spends those kinds of days buried far under the covers, or sprawled on the couch, eating ice cream (the one tub that escaped his roommates' clutches) and watching reruns of Say Yes to the Dress (his secret pleasure) while polishing his nails. 

But as much as he just wants to forget the day, he can't. Not when his freedom is hanging in the balance. So he gets out of bed, growling all the way. There's no one else in the flat. Good, because he wouldn't have been able to endure another round of goose-related stupidities. Bad, because they all left, and they took all the umbrellas they had (two). And of course his clothes don't have hoods, because hoods will never, ever fit with a dandy aesthetic like his. 

Which means that he has to go to work without any cover or shelter. And of course, to add insult to injury, the wind starts blowing the minute he goes out. He crosses the streets as fast as he can, taking shelter behind trees and bus stops and everything that can help. But it doesn't. The wind keeps blowing the rain in his face, shaking his clothes and trying to push him back where he comes from. When he finally reaches the store, he's soaking wet. The other clerk looks at him, then at the puddle already forming at his feet. He expects her to scream at him, but she just gives out a very, very long sigh, and gestures to him to follow her to the back. Normally, Montparnasse wouldn't even dream of obeying any command given to him by anyone, especially someone he doesn't know. But the rain is dripping down his back, sticking his clothes to his body, and sucking all the warmth out of his body. 

She leads him in the back room, and without a word, hands him a handful of fabric. He looks at her, then at the clothes she's holding, then at her again. When he doesn't move, she puts them on the table, and just says :

\- Get changed, you dork. You're gonna catch your death.

Montparnasse eyes the clothes, then her again.

\- Why do you have clothes on hand ?

\- Because of problems like that. We keep them there because having an 8-hour shift in damp clothes is hell, especially here. So you put them on, and you'll bring them back tomorrow.

Before Montparnasse can run away, she exits the room, leaving him on his own in the back room. A glance around teaches him that, at least, there's no camera here. It's good. If he wanted to undress, of course, and put that.... thing on him. On the other hand, he's starting to be really, really cold. And as she said, the heating is barely on here. He's going to freeze to death.

One more glance, assuring him that no one is looking at him, not in the shop nor from a camera, and he quickly disrobes. His skin when the fabric peels off is cold and wet, and he dries himself as much as he can with a corner of his shirt that escaped the storm. He can't stay like that, so he grabs the clothes and put them on, trying not to think about what he's wearing. The pants stop above his ankles, and are already worn, with a hole around one knee. On the contrary, the sweater is large enough to put two of him inside. On the chest is written the name of a sports team he doesn't care about, and it's a horrid light blue that doesn't fit him at all. But it's warm and dry, so he doesn't rip it off. 

The girl is still here when he comes back. She observes him, gives him a nod (of approbation or mockery, he doesn't know) and leaves without another word. Montparnasse takes a seat behind the counter, trying to ignore the water still dripping from his hair and the shivers that run down his back. 

The door flies open and hits the stand behind it, hard enough to give a shriek of tortured metal and glass. Montparnasse jumps down his seat, cursing the wind who can't even leave him alone in the shop, but it's not the wind, rather two people who come in running and immediately disappear down an aisle, leaving Montparnasse to close behind them to stop the rain from entering. He's ready to yell at him, but his words get caught in his throat when he sees the handprint on the glass. It's red. 

There's a bloody handprint on the door, still fresh, and two people running inside the shop. Montparnasse can think of a thousand horror movies that start exactly like this. And more pressing, of a shit-ton of troubles coming his way. 

He follows the voices coming from the depths of the shop. One of them is steady, hard to hear, but the other.... he knows it from somewhere. It's shriller than he remembers, but... He turns the corner, and here he is, the small guy with the very long scarf and the very fast tongue. The other guy is currently sitting on the floor, holding his head. His hair is shaved, which gives Montparnasse a very, very nice view of the large cut above his eyebrow. It's at least five centimetres long, seems deep, and droplets of blood are seeping out of it, rolling on his face and falling to the floor, so many that there's already a small puddle at his feet. 

Scarf Guy still babbling, probably trying to reassure his friend, but the words are so muddled the other probably doesn't understand. All while talking, he's ripping open packages, pulling bandages and gauze out in what can only be described as "a fine mess". Montparnasse wants really much to scream at him to stop messing with products and breaking everything. Not that he cares, but he'll probably be in trouble. But just one look at the friend who's face is now half-covered in blood is enough. The small guy starts applying some kind of disinfectant to the wound, delaying the blood which now drips clearer.

\- He'll need stitches on this.

The small guy almost jumps to the ceiling when he hears Montparnasse's voice, but still keeps dabbing at the wound with small, professional gestures. It can be commanded that he didn't hurt the other guy, didn't even touch him a little harder. The other guy, who didn't even flinch, just looks up and.... smiles. What. The guy is half covered in blood, probably in pain, and he just smiles at him. 

\- I probably will, he says in a noticeably even tone, but Joly really wanted to stop the bleeding first. He's afraid I'm going to lose all the blood in my body during...

\- Of course you do ! Scarf Guy - Joly - cuts him. Have you seen how much you're bleeding ? Remember that you'll pass out if you lose more than two liters of blood ! And if you pass out....

Montparnasse glances at the puddle on the ground. Granted, it's very impressive to think it just came out of someone's head. But he's still far away from losing two whole litres. Joly doesn't seem to think so, however.

\- And more, he goes on as he keeps cleaning the cut, what about infections ? They happen way faster than you think, and seeing as it wasn't very clean....

\- I know, I know.... 

The other guy tries to stop the rambling, but Joly seems on a roll.

\- And what about tetanus ? Did you even get your booster shot ? I bet you didn't ! It was probably rusted, and dirty, and it got into the wound, and you'll get tetanus and die !

Joly looks ready to run and check the other's guy's vaccination sheet right this instant, but the other manages to grab his arm, and he goes back to the task at work. Other Guy looks at Montparnasse with an apologetic smile.

\- Sorry for that. Joly can overreact sometimes...

\- I do not !

\- ... but I'll be alright as soon as he can stop this...

\- And take you to the hospital for a booster shot !

\- And take me to the hospital, but I swear I got a booster shot.... one day. 

He looks up at Montparnasse, who still hasn't moved from his spot. To be fair, he doesn't really know what he's supposed to do in that kind of situations. Should he call an ambulance ? Get him the bill ? Kick them out ? Maybe not, they aren't really breaking rules. So he just stares at the wound and Joly's hands working on it.

\- You see, Other Guy starts explaining, mistaking his stare for curiosity. We were running late, but I wanted to grab something to eat. So we go to Subway, and I keep checking my watch to be sure we're not too late. The guy making my sub must have mistaken this for a mark of impatience, and maybe he was afraid of me yelling at him... which I would never do, of course, I'm not an animal. Anyway, the guy is rushing to meet my impossible and non-existent deadline, and it's there that it becomes funny...

\- Of course it's not funny ! Joly screeches. 

\- Come on. It's funny. Anyway, he tries too fast to cut the bread, the knife slips from his hand, hits the cutting board, and I don't know how, stabs me in the head. 

There's a silence that follows that declaration. A long silence. A long, heavy silence. Montparnasse stares at the head, wondering if the guy takes him for an idiot. It looks like a knife cut, okay. But still, that sounds pretty unlikely. And stupid. But Joly didn't deny it, and why would they lie anyway ? To rob a few healing supplies ? 

\- You got stabbed.... by a Subway employee ?

\- You can see it like that. But it was an accident, I swear ! So Joly brought me here because it's just on the other side of the road, and... well, there we are !

He gives him a bright smile that's a bit tarnished by the blood still on his lip. But Joly is working fast on taking care the wound, and at least it doesn't spill everywhere anymore. 

Soon, everything is properly bandaged and taken care of. Joly helps his friend on his feet, trying to support him, which is hilarious because Other Guy is one foot taller and twice his weight. If he falls, Joly will be crushed like a building under Godzilla's foot. It becomes even more unbalanced when Joly picks up a cane and leans on it. Other Guy's arm around his shoulder, he starts walking towards the exit, Other Guy following, just a little wobbly on his feet. Leaving behind blood and opened boxes. As if reading in Montparnasse's mind, Joly turns to him and says :

\- Can you gather the boxes for me ? I'll come back and pay as soon as I can get him treated.

Before he can answer, they are gone, quite fast for two people in this state. Montparnasse has no other option than take care of the mess. He puts the boxes behind the counters, hoping that no one will accuse him of stealing them or something. He'll need to find Joly and make him pay for them, or else he'll be in trouble. He may ask Feuilly, or maybe Prouvaire. All those students certainly know each other. 

There's still the blood to clean, and he's certainly not going to use some paper towels. If he puts some on the clothes, it'll never totally go away. Also he doesn't want to touch a stranger's blood. He goes in the back room, looks around for something to wipe the floor. There's a mop broom and a bucket in the corner. He fills it with water as warm as he can and a bit of soap still left in a bottle, and brings the whole thing back in the shop. 

To find, in front of the puddles and observing them, none other than Javert. He's back to him, and Montparnasse is very tempted to run. But cops must have a sixth sense that makes them detect people-who-aren't-thieves-at-all. Javert spins on himself like he was made of one slab of stone, and his eyes fall on Montparnasse, nailing him in place.

\- There you are, he growls.

Montparnasse doesn't know what to answer that's not an insult, so he just steps forwards, broom in hand. But Javert raises a hand, and Montparnasse stops before he touches him.

\- I need to clean, he says, raising the broom to show him.

\- Not before you explain yourself.

\- What do I have to explain ?

\- Why there is blood on the floor.

\- Because someone bled on the floor, Montparnasse deadpans.

It doesn't seem very funny to Javert. He frowns (more), and steps forwards.

\- Don't make me ask twice.

His tone is threatening, and Montparnasse remembers that he's supposed to be on his best behaviour as long as he's here, or he'll end in jail for a long time. So he sighs, and gestures to the puddle.

\- A student just came here. With a friend. Who had a cut on his head. Said he had an accident. Bled on the floor. Student treated him. They're gone. Good ?

\- Who was the student ? 

Montparnasse doesn't answer right away. He doesn't owe anything to Joly, but does this mean he wants to throw the dogs at him ? No. No one deserves that. Then again, they didn't really do anything wrong. Just got a stupid accident. But still, there's a part of him that resists the idea. 

\- Why ? he asks to win some time. 

He steps forwards again, but Javert stops him again.

\- Do not touch that blood until I'm sure there's no crime happening here.

\- "Crime" ? Do you think I stabbed someone and hid his body in the back ? You wanna check, inspector ?

\- Do not mock me.

His tone hardens in a way Montparnasse didn't think possible. Maybe he shouldn't play that game too much. And, now that he remembers, Javert can request to see the monitoring footage. Playing around will help no one. Still, a last shred of prudence keeps him from spilling everything.

\- Don't know the name, he says finally. He wears a scarf and walks with a cane. His friend doesn't. That's all I know.

He expects Javert to either jump on the information, or call him a liar. But to his greatest surprise, his stances... relaxes. Well, at least a little. He doesn't look ready to jump at his throat anymore. 

\- And what happened with those students ?

Montparnasse gives him the rundown on his encounter with Joly and his friends. Javert takes out a small notepad and writes down a few things. He closes it with a noisy clap, stuffs it in his pocket. And, sadly for Montparnasse, doesn't go away. 

\- What can I do for you, inspector ? he asks, not even bothering hiding the venom in his voice.

\- Funny you ask me. Where were you, last morning, around seven o'clock ?

\- Around seven ? Sleeping, Mr Officer. 

\- Do you have any witness ? 

\- No, sir, as surprising as it may look for someone as beautiful as me, I was sadly alone. 

\- Do not mock me.

\- Oh, I wouldn't dare. 

Javert stares him down for a moment.

\- So, you're telling me you weren't around the jewellery store on Lamarque Street, yesterday at seven ? 

\- Why would I have been there ?

\- I'm he one asking the questions here.

Montparnasse is very tempted to send him to Hell, but he can't. So he just shakes his head. 

\- No, sir. I wasn't. Then again, diamonds don't really go with my natural glow. 

He shouldn't joke, he knows it, but he can't help it. Besides, he's feeling way too cold to care about anything else than how he's going to get his feet warm. Javert glares at him, and for a second, he thinks that his life is really over. But finally, he turns away without a word of goodbye and leaves. Montparnasse falls on the stool and sighs. This time, it was really, really close. Like, he could have been arrested, just because Javert can't stand him. That jewellery must have been robbed, and he's zeroed on the nearest thief he knows. Who's stuck in place because he can't leave for two days more. He's lucky Javert has taken his excuse at face value, because he doesn't have any alibi, unless a bag of salt can act as an alibi. At least he's not in jail. For now.

He finally moves from his seat, because there's still the matter of that puddle of blood to clean. He's not a cleaning person at all, that's not his chore in the group, so it takes him a moment to find the most efficient way to get rid of that puddle of blood. The handprint on the window gives him the hardest time, and he has to rub and wipe for a few good minutes until the glass is pristine clean. Having to work outside doesn't make his mood better, and when he finally comes inside, he's shivering and sneezing. It doesn't bode well for the rest of the night.

Actually, no, it doesn't. During the next hour, Montparnasse feels more and more shivers climbing up his back. His feet gives him the impression they are caught in ice, and he can barely feel his fingers. And there's that weird itch in his throat. Maybe it's just an allergy, he keeps telling himself. It's dusty here, the cold air is blowing on his face and he hates air-conditioning with a passion. It's probably only this and nothing more. 

Around midnight, as he's thinking really hard about calling Claquesous to his help, or wrapping himself in a pile of newspapers, the owner comes in. Montparnasse can feel his hair stand on end as he walks closer. He can't stand the guy. Not because he put him to work, even if it plays a part, but because, plainly put, the guy is creepy. Montparnasse can't stand the way he looks at him, always leering, checking him out. That's exactly what he's doing right now, his eyes diving in the hoodie's collar gaping on his collarbones. Montparnasse is tempted to close it, but his hands seem to weight tons, and he's too tired to care or move.

\- So, the guy asks after an uncomfortable silence, I've seen Javert come out of here. Did something happen ? Did you have any trouble ?

Montparnasse swallows his bile and contempt together.

\- Nothing, he says flatly. 

\- Nothing ? Are you sure ? Because judging by his face, it didn't look like nothing.

\- Some guys came in. One was bleeding. They... bought some bandages and left. He wanted to know what happened. That's all.

He's not going to say that Joly hasn't paid yet for the bandages. He's not a snitch. Also, there's still a chance that he's going to be accused of the fact, and it wouldn't be good for him. 

\- He was bleeding ? What happened ?

\- Some kind of accident. Don't know much.

\- They didn't bother you, now, did they ?

The man reaches and _pats him on the arm_. Montparnasse has to restrain himself not to punch him in the face, and takes his arm away.

\- No, they didn't. I'm fine.

\- Very well. But don't hesitate, come to me if you need anything, okay ? Don't let Javert bother you. 

Montparnasse very much wants to tell him that it's his fault that Javert is on his case, and if he really wants to help him, he can drop dead or let him go. But he doesn't, just keeps the iciest glare he can muster on the guy. Said guy seems to understand that there's no opening to be found here, because with a last pat on Montparnasse's arm, stretching over the counter to better reach him, he's gone. 

As soon as he's out the door, Montparnasse rolls his sleeve up and frantically rubs the skin where the man touched him. He could really do with some soap, but the only one he can find is some kind of goo he wouldn't use to polish his shoes. His skin is way too delicate to get that kind of treatment.

At last, six o'clock comes, and with it the next shift. Montparnasse gathers his still drenched clothes in a ball, not even caring about wrinkling them anymore. The last hour has been spent in some kind of daze, watching pretty lights dancing before his eyes, and feeling like he's constantly falling. Or maybe the world is sliding around him, he doesn't know. Clothes are not his first priority right now. He grabs a can of soup on the shelf, shows it to the other clerk who writes it down, and leaves.

He barely remembers the walk home. He's more or less sure that it doesn't rain, because the clothes stay dry, but that's all he can say. The flat is dark and silent when he comes home. Which is good because he wouldn't have been able to handle his arsehole flat-mates. He pours the soup in a bowl, puts it in the microwave. While it's heating, he goes to change. He'd keep the hoodie on ; it may be gaudy and not his colour, but it's comfy and warm. But he has to give it back, so he drops it in the laundry basket. The cold air makes him shiver immediately, and he runs to his room to find something warmer. Luckily, he still owns some lounge clothes, even if he doesn't admit it, and soon, he's wrapped in a huge, all black, sweater . 

When he's started the washing machine, the soup is hot, and he brings him with him in the room. It feels good, to have something hot to hold, it helps fight the icy feeling creeping up his legs. It's horrible, and he buries himself under the blankets to keep himself warm. He's shivering, and his throat burns, and his head hurts too, but he keeps telling himself that it's just the cold, and the soup he swallowed too fast, and the brutal lightning of the shop. Maybe he's tired, too. A good night of sleep, that's what he needs. He lays down, wraps himself snuggly, and closes his eyes. He'll probably feel better tomorrow.


	4. Sunday... and after

On Sunday, he doesn't feel better at all. It's even worse than the last day. His head pounds horribly, he's freezing, his lips are chapped, his throat hurts like he's swallowed a handful of broken glass, and the worst, his nose is stuffed. He's really, really tempted to call in sick, but he can't. Even if the shop owner doesn't get on his case, it wouldn't look very good to go missing just after Javert visited him. And HE would get on his case, and not let go. He doesn't need this in his life.

He gets out of bed, slowly. wincing when his muscles protest. Everything aches. He feels like someone beat him within an inch of his life. When all of this is finished, he'll stay in bed for at least a week. The world will have to go on without him, as will the others. Soon, he can do it. Just one day to go. That's what loops in his mind. Just one day to go. One day. You can do it.

He gets dressed in the warmest and most comfortable clothes, and screw elegance tonight, he'll need all the comfort he can gather. He'll just have to avoid any reflective surface to not see the disaster, and that's all. He'll live. At least, his jumper keeps him warm enough, even if it's a cable-knit, lumpy monstrosity. Fortunately, it's all black. Thanks whoever for small miracles. He grabs the clothes fresh out of the dryer, wraps a long scarf around his neck, puts on his gloves and coat, and out he goes, before he can change his mind.

He almost does as soon as he's set a foot outside. It's windy, and maybe it's not raining yet, but the dark grey clouds, hanging low, are a promise that will sooner or later be cashed in. He hurries as much as he can, tries not to think about his muscles protesting against the pace. 

The other clerk greats him with a raised eyebrow. 

\- You look like shit, she remarks.

\- I hadn't noticed.

She takes the clothes from him, puts then in the back room. 

\- There's some medicine in the back, she calls as she leaves. Might help.

Montparnasse immediatly goes to dig in the back room. As she said, there are a few pills in a drawer. He doesn't know if they are still good, or clean, or whatever. They look like normal cold medicine, so there's that. Can't hurt anyway. He downs them with a glass of water, goes back to the counter and tries not to fall asleep on it right away.

When the door opens, he barely lifts his head. And immediately lowers it. Too many bright colours. Too much noise, too. It's the guy with the bow-tie again, and gaudy pants. Who in his right mind wears mustard-coloured pants ? They are so horrid they hurt Montparnasse's eyes each time he moves. He tries to keep his head low, so he doesn't notice right away two very noteworthy things. One, those terrible pants are held by suspenders. Rainbow suspenders. There should be a law against that kind of things. Second, he's not alone, there's a guy with him, who's not talking much, so Montparnasse doesn't pay attention to him at first. 

It's Sweater Guy. The one with the undercut and the books and the old grampa style. The one Montparnasse thought vaguely should hook up with Bowtie Guy, because their styles are as nightmarish as each other. Well, who knows, they do know each other. Birds of a feather and all that. Sweater Guy seems to tolerate Bowtie Guy's chattering, or at least not want to dunk him in the nearest freezer. Good for him. 

They walk to the counter in sync, and could they be more obvious ? They do. Because Bowtie Guy looks at the other, and it's the most disgusting account of puppy eyes Montparnasse has seen since.... well, since Grantaire and his blondie were there, but still. And... Sweater Guy is answering in kin. Montparnasse wants to tell them to scram and go and be horribly sweet somewhere else. At least, they don't take time to chitchat or kiss or whatever else they could do that would be even worse than those googly eyes, they pay and they leave. Holding hands. Montparnasse doesn't know if he should barf or laugh because Bowtie is way smaller and is practically hanging from Sweater's arm. Oh well, good for them. As long as they're out of his sight. 

It seems to be the roll-call of this week, because all the students he's seen come and go in increasing weirdly situations seem to come in. Grantaire drops by a little later, almost covered head to toe in paint, just stopping by to buy some cleaning supplies, and Montparnasse is sure the red thing that dances just outside of the halo given by the shop windows is Blondie's hoodie, with Blondie inside, trying very hard not to look like he's waiting for Grantaire. Who is in and out of the shop in less than a minute, barely waving at Montparnasse. Oh well, he can't hold a candle to Blondie, now, can he ? (does he want to ? no.)

Next to come in is Feuilly, buying packs of smoke as he shouldn’t do, but Montparnasse is not his mother, is he ? If Feuilly wants to smell like smoke, that’s his business. He takes one look at Montparnasse, and of course has to open his mouth.

\- You look like shit.

\- Thanks, you too. 

\- No, seriously. You look sick. What happened ?

Montparnasse is very tempted to tell him, allow himself to be pitied for three seconds. But someone else puts his head through the door and calls :

\- Hey, Feu, what’s taking so long ?

It’s the dude from earlier that week, the muscular one with the hideous neon shirt. But he’s dressed…. Way better than Montparnasse. He now wears a stylisher sweater than him, a coat that looks very nice, an accent scarf in soft shades. With his hair in a bun, it’s quite a sight to behold. Feuilly seems to think the same, because he looks at Buff Guy, then back at Montparnasse, then at Buff Guy again, as if caught in a hesitation. Okay. He’s been caught too. Gods, is there something in the air that makes everyone crush on each other ? In his greatest display of selflessness, Montparnasse nods towards Buff Guy.

\- Go. I’ll be okay.

\- Are you sure ? Because you….

\- Look like shit. Bears repeating. He’s waiting for you, go. 

\- But…

\- I’ll live. Now go before he turns into a pumpkin or something.

Feuilly smiles at him and squeezes his arm before leaving, in a gesture that’s way more comforting than the other guy last time. Buff Guy waves at him with a smile that’s… not victorious or anything, just friendly. Hm. May not be too bad for Feuilly. But Montparnasse still makes a mental note to drop him the “if you hurt him” conversation. Wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

The thought entertains him for a few minutes, but it's not long before he's back to shivers and trying to keep his hands warm. He goes in the back to pick a cup of coffee, and it's a great help, but it doesn't last very long. So he drinks cup after cup, enjoying the burn of the shitty coffee in his throat and on his fingers. Soon, he's probably going to ascend to another plan of existence where sickness doesn't exist, the sky is made of Prada jackets and leather shoes grow on trees. 

A voice pulls him out of his reverie. 

\- Hello ? Montparnasse ?

It's the small Scarf Guy - Joly, he remembers - cheerful as ever. Well at least for the first second. Then he seems to see the state Montparnasse is in. Immediately, he pulls his scarf up to cover his face. 

\- What ? Montparnasse asks dryly.

\- I've... come to pay for the supplies, comes the muffled voice.

Montparnasse gathers the boxes and scans them, all the while looking at Joly who has stepped back and looks at him like he has the plague. When it's time to pay, he puts the money on the counter and pushes it towards him, rather than give him directly. Montparnasse would have retorted something clever, but his brain is running idle, and he just shoes him away. Joly doesn't need to be told twice and scampers. Idiot. It's just a cold.

The rest of the night is a blur, people come and go, they probably talk to him and he answers, he presses buttons and the register chimes, but it's all lost in the fog. Like when Prouvaire came in the first time, but way, way less enjoyable. His blood rushes in his ears, covering any noise, making it difficult to concentrate on anything. Worse, his head feels full of lead, too heavy to carry normally. He ends up with his forehead resting against the counter, trying to believe that the coolness of the cheap plastic is doing wonders on his headache.

The door opens, and he knows he should get up, but he can't. He's too exhausted. Too bad if it's a biker gang who's going to steal and destroy everything in their path, he's not getting up. He can sleep here for all he cares.

\- Montparnasse ?

The voice would have make him bolt upright, would he have the strength. Instead, he just turns his head so he can at least glance at Prouvaire. At first, he only sees a whirlwind of colour, a long line of bright orange, a pale face. He blinks several times, squints a little even if it makes his face look ugly. The line becomes a braid falling on a shoulder, the various colours assemble into a waistcoat worn on a large collared shirt, jeans, a long coat reaching their calves, and a skirt patterned as a Van Gogh painting. And those boots. The face comes into focus too, with all the lovely details, the freckles, the small curls on his forehead, and the mismatched eyes. And the concerned look. They look really concerned. Concerned for him ? He's carrying a plastic bag that already contains something. Did he shop and Montparnasse didn't notice ? 

\- Montparnasse ? Prouvaire calls again.

Montparnasse tries to answer, but what comes out of his mouth is more of an articulated groan that normal words. Prouvaire seems comforted, seeing that he's still alive. He shows him the bag.

\- Joly told me that you were sick, so I brought you a few things.

.... What ? He what ? Montparnasse frowns, trying to make sense of it. He should be able to, but the dots don't want to connect. 

\- What ? he croaks.

His voice is awful, all rough and raspy, but Prouvaire seems to understand nonetheless.

\- Joly called me to tell me you were sick, so I though that I'd bring you some things. He advised me on which drugs to bring you, and I made you some soup.

Montparnasse mulls over the words for a few seconds before it finally dawns on him.

\- Soup ? You made me soup ?

\- Chicken soup, yes. It should be quite good, but maybe we'll have to heat it again.

Chicken soup ? "We" ? Montparnasse doesn't know what to say to that. Maybe nothing. He's not going to reveal to a handsome almost stranger that he's ridiculously close to crying because no one ever made him soup. 

\- What time is it ? he asks instead.

He glances at the clock. Is it six o'clock ? It looks like six. Prouvaire confirms it.

\- It's time to go home. Come on, I'll walk you there.

Montparnasse wants to say it's okay, he's not _that_ helpless. But it takes an incredible amount of effort just to get upright, and the room starts spinning wildly. Suddenly, Prouvaire is beside him, holding him upright. He smells like flowers and something else, something a bit spicy, but very soft. Above all, he smells _good_, and Montparnasse doesn't want anything but bury his face in the shirt that looks so soft, and forget about everything. 

Another person comes in, and there's a few words exchanged, but he doesn't listen. All that matters now is Prouvaire's arm around his waist, holding him close. Then they're walking towards the door, and they're out. The cold morning air hits his face, blowing away the mist a little. 

\- Where do you live ? Prouvaire asks.

Montparnasse gives him the address, and they start walking. Prouvaire is still holding onto his waist, the bag hitting his leg on the other side, Montparnasse can hear it. Everything comes to him at the same time, garbled, overwhelming him. Blinding lights, blaring cars passing them, people talking, screaming, people, people... His legs feel like they don't belong to his body, he's perched on those things, far from the ground, and they're moving without his input, just walking and walking and not stopping....

They stop, though, when Prouvaire stops in front of his building. Prouvaire fishes the keys in his pocket as if he's used to it. Montparnasse feels scared for a second ; Prouvaire meeting the others is not a good idea. It's even the worst idea he's ever had. What if he realizes that they are on the bad side of the law and decides to run away ? What if he realizes and the others will gang on him to protect their secrets ? What... if they hurt him ?

Prouvaire must sense that he's tensed, because he smiles down at him.

\- Don't worry. I can handle myself.

Montparnasse wants to ask what he's talking about, and if he knows where he's heading, but he refrains. Maybe it's stupid - of course it's stupid - but he doesn't want Prouvaire to go. 

Luckily, the flat is empty when they come in - or it seems empty which is as good. Montparnasse shows him the way to his room. He falls on the bed head-first, and it's so comfortable under him that he could sleep there and then. But Prouvaire rolls him on the side, unties his shoes, drops the blankets on him. 

\- I'll be right back, he says, and he disappears in the hallway.

Montparnasse wants to call after him, to tell him.... something ? To be careful, not to talk to strangers ? Something like that. But Prouvaire has already left. Montparnasse gets rid of his pants, wraps himself in the blankets as tight as he can. 

Prouvaire soon comes in, holding two bowls that smell delicious. He sits on the bed, avoiding Montparnasse's feet, and gives him one of the bowls, keeping the other. 

\- I'm hungry too, he says with a shrug.

Montparnasse is not going to deny him some soup, after all, he made it, he can do whatever he wants with it, as long as he gets a share too. The first spoonful is heavenly, warm and tasty and feeling like velvet and honey on his poor throat. He empties it in record time. Prouvaire then hands him a water bottle and several pills. 

\- You can trust Joly with remedies, he says. He knows what he’s doing.

At that point, Montparnasse would snort cocaine if it would mean getting rid of the ringing in his head. He doesn’t say so, because Prouvaire would not find it funny. Besides, now that he’s eaten, past week is finally catching with him with bone-crushing exhaustion. He falls down on his pillow, and closes his eyes. He can barely feel the blanket being pulled tight around his shoulders before he’s asleep.

~*~

On Monday, Montparnasse wakes up… not exactly refreshed, but it’s miles above and beyond how he felt on Sunday. His head is still pounding and his throat is dry, but he doesn’t feel like he’s going to break. The blankets are warm, there’s a hint of sunlight through the window, and even better, he doesn’t have to get up to go to work on that awful convenience shop, not now and not ever. 

He burrows a bit under the covers, enjoying the warmth lingering there. And freezes when his feet meet something solid that doesn’t have anything to do there. It feels like.... Feet. Warm feet, with legs attached. Someone else is in his bed. Someone is living and in his bed. It’s good, because he didn’t kill someone in his daze and drag them in his bed, which, okay, is a bit far-fetched but still. He can barely recall what happened last night, so murder is not entirely out of the picture. But now that he moves a bit, he notices that there’s something heavy on his waist, and it can’t be his belt because he’s not wearing pants. 

Trying to get past the pounding in his head, he recaps : there’s a living person in his bed, said person is currently holding on his waist, and not in a defensive hold, and he’s not wearing pants. Just what exactly happened last night ? He turns around, very slowly, as not to wake the person up, in the event of a danger. The first thing he sees is long hair. Long hair everywhere, shining like metal in the low sunlight. And a freckled face then, with a cute upturned nose, buried in the pillow and a little in his own shoulder. Prouvaire is still asleep, his lashes drawing delicate shadows on his cheeks. Montparnasse is tempted to touch him. Instead, he notices that Prouvaire is not wearing his poofy shirt from yesterday, but a grey, nondescript shirt. Montparnasse recognizes it, it’s part of the « I’ll get rid of those disgraceful items one day if I think about it » pile. Prouvaire probably changed into it before…. Before what ? What did they do, exactly ? Did they have sex ? Or something ? He hopes not. It wouldn’t be the first time he wakes up in a bed not knowing how he got there, or who’s beside him, but… but it’s different. It’s Prouvaire, Prouvaire who seems to have taken residence in his mind, Prouvaire who’s been so nice with him, and Montparnasse wants more of that kindness. He doesn’t want it to just be a fling.

The realisation is crushing, and for a second, he doesn’t know if he should run or wake him up or silently slide out of bed and play it as if it never happens. He should, he should go, or kick him out, and fast, before Prouvaire’s claws sink more into him. He can’t let him in, it’s too dangerous, for the both of them, he’ll hurt him, Prouvaire is too nice and pretty and delicate and _good_ to deserve this, and…

And Prouvaire is moving. Montparnasse barely has the time to recommand his soul to whoever is listening, when Prouvaire opens his eyes and smiles at him. And every resolve Montparnasse may have come to melts like ice under the sun. Those pretty, weird eyes, make him feel.... he can't put words on it. Nervous, with shaky hands, and covered in a cold sweat, but maybe that's just his fever actung up again. But what's not the fever is the feeling that he doesn't want these eyes to look away, ever, or hold him close and... kiss him ? Kiss him, yes. Kiss him senseless. 

Prouvaire sits up, and his hair cascads down his back in a way that makes Montparnasse want to slide his fingers through it. The shirt is way too large on him, the collar hanging low. Montparnasse very pointedly doesn't look down, because the clavicles are showing, all dusted in small freckles, and he doesn't know what he's going to do if confronted with the delicate hollow between his clavicles. He's focusing very hard on a patch of wall behind Prouvaire's head, when a hand lands on his forehead.

\- Hmm... your fever seems down, Prouvaire remarks. Better take some pills again and eat something, but I think the worst is over. 

He produces some pills again and hands him the bottle. As Montparnasse takes them, he gets up and disappears in the hallway without another word. Montparnasse jumps : he can't just up and leaves like that ! He can't exit his life like this, also, the others are still somewhere in the flat. How are they going to react to the presence of some kind of fae person in the kitchen ? Not well. Not well at all. 

Prouvaire is already in the kitchen, making some coffee with ease like he's always done it. Things seem to jump at him before he needs to look for them, like they want to please him. Out of the blankets, he looks less ethereal ; then again, anyone would, wearing flower-patterned briefs. Montparnasse's first impression is right, he's made of at least 60% legs, covered in freckles. And a tattoo, he realizes now, a white and orange fish swimming along his calf. There's another one on his arm, only half hidden by the sleeve. Roses surrounded by leaves. The colours are vivid, beautiful, and Montparnasse kind of wants to touch them, feel the skin and the ink under his fingers.

\- Coffee is ready, Prouvaire announces.

Montparnasse snaps out of his reverie. Prouvaire is holding a cup out to him, the other in his hand, and Montparnasse wants nothing more than do _something_ right now. But he shivers, and sneezes, several times, very noisily. Immediately, Prouvaire shoos him towards the bed, puts him under the blankets. And exactly as Montparnasse hopes, he sits down beside him. Montparnasse hastily covers both of them with the blankets. Prouvaire smiles at him, and his heart rate shoots up. He grabs the plastic bag still lying hear the bed, and, Montparnasse doesn't know how, produces two still very soft and buttery croissants.

\- Would you like to marry me ? he blurts.

Prouvaire doesn't laugh. Montparnasse feels himself blush, he hates it, and very much wants to disappear under the bed. But Prouvaire just smiles at him ; it's very gentle, and very devoid of pity. 

\- I don't usually marry people I'm not on first name basis with, he answers.

Fuck. That's right. He didn't even think about asking earlier. Then again, he didn't think about Prouvaire being in his bed in the morning (afternoon) either. 

\- Okay, so... what's your name ? Montparnasse asks. 

\- I'm Jehan. Jean, in fact, but everyone calls me Jehan.

Jehan Prouvaire. Of course he has a name as beautiful as him. 

\- And you ? Jehan asks.

Montparnasse hesitates. Should he say it ? He doesn't really want, but Jehan is looking at him, expectantly, and he can't just hold it like that and hope it'll be alright. 

\- It's Alistair, he finally confesses, and quickly adds : but I don't like it. Not at all.

\- Then, I'll call you Montparnasse, if that's okay ?

\- Perfect. So, Jehan Prouvaire, would you like to marry me ?

\- Maybe we should date a little first, what do you think ?

\- I'd love that, Montparnasse says, emotion strangling him a little.

They drink their coffee in silence. Montparnasse is still burning with embarrassment, but Prouvaire doesn't seem bothered by his outburst, or uncomfortable, or anything. Montparnasse decides to try and push his luck. He scoots a little closer, until his arm is pressed against Prouvaire's. Who doesn't shy away, and even... leans closer ? They stay like that for a little while, the warmth of Prouvaire's arm seeping through the hoodie to warm Montparnasse to the core. 

\- Is it a date ? he asks.

\- Do you want it to be a date ?

\- Fuck yeah, you bet I want. 

Prouvaire smiles and presses a little closer.

\- Then it's a date.

Montparnasse feels the biggest, dopiest smile appear on his face. He stretches up a bit, kisses Prouvaire - Jehan - on the cheek. He then sits back, and lays his head on Prouvaire's shoulder. He's acting like a schoolgirl with her first crush, but it's okay. Prouvaire's shoulder is just at the right height, and its owner hasn't run away, instead snuggling - snuggling ! - closer. He thinks about sending flowers to the owner of the convenience shop. Okay, maybe not because the guy is an arsehole, but without him and his stupid scheme, he wouldn't have met Prouvaire. Also he needs to thank Joly, who sent Prouvaire to him, even if he acted so scared by his bout of sickness. And congratulate past him : he was right about being in a teen flick, and it even ended with a happy end and a pretty guy in his bed.

Of course, he knows, like anyone, that meeting the cute person of your dreams is just the beginning. Keeping him is going to take effort. But for him, for that smile, for his presence, Montparnasse is ready to make efforts. Maybe it won't work, maybe Prouvaire will not be the person for him, but he's going to try, and they'll be countless days spent like that, just drinking coffee in lounge clothes, resting against his lover's shoulder, and he doesn't need more. The idea slowly lulls him, and he falls asleep curling against Prouvaire's side, the other man's fingers gently playing with his hair.


End file.
